


Booty

by Chryse



Series: What Did You Think About [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-01
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:42:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chryse/pseuds/Chryse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yo ho ho.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Booty

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story involving a sexual fantasy which includes an element of somewhat dubious consent. Just to be clear: everyone involved is entirely consenting, and also pretending, but if that doesn't float your ship by all means give this one a pass.

“I’m inclined to think—“ John said.

“I should do so,” Sherlock said impatiently.

John considered himself one of the most long-suffering of mortals, but he had to admit he was annoyed at the sardonic interruption.  “Really, Sherlock,” he said severely, “you are a little trying at times.”

Sherlock groaned and flopped onto the sofa. “What’s the _point?_ I already know what you’re going to say. You’re going to tell me that if I actually looked through the papers instead of flinging them across the room after a glance at the first page I might find something to interest me. I won’t. Criminal genius peaked with Moriarty and it’s been all downhill from there, petty criminals and petty motivations and no imagination and it’s all too tedious for words.” Sherlock flung one arm out, which left him draped across the sofa like a Victorian heroine in a swoon of terminal ennui.

“You’ve got hobbies. Do one,” John said a little sternly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in a glare that should have shriveled John into a leaf. “I don’t have _hobbies._ ”

“You play the violin, you do chemistry, you pretend to teach me rimming…” John had found being on the receiving end of this activity hopelessly ticklish and not arousing in the least, but Sherlock loved it almost as much as having it done to him—probably just because of the chance to get his nose and tongue up a part of John’s body they’d never been.

“Oh please, we’ve been doing that bit for weeks. It’s completely tapped out.”

That stung. John tightened his jaw, unwilling for Sherlock to see he’d hit a nerve ( _bored, he’s getting bored of you too,_ the Sally Donovan voice in his head whispered). “Well, fine, then. If you’re tired of that then I suppose I’ll have to guess one of _your_ fantasies.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw himself over so that his face was buried in the sofa cushion. “As if you could,” he said, muffled.

“Let’s see,” John mused aloud. “Let’s try the primary school one, shall we?”

Sherlock’s head popped up. “What?”

“Your primary school fantasy. Remember? That night I told you about going to the ballet, and you complained about the lack of detail? You said you’d come up with better fantasies when you were in primary school.”

“That was meant to point up the lack of—“

“Sex pirates,” John said. It was the first thing that popped into his head.

Sherlock’s face went slack with astonishment and John felt an instant of disbelief before filling with delighted pride. “How—how could you—“ Sherlock sat up so quickly he almost fell off the sofa. “How could you possibly— _Mycroft!”_

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” John said, clapping his hands over his ears. “Why on earth would you think Mycroft and I’d ever had a conversation to do with your sex fantasies? Or anything about sex at all? And why would you think Mycroft would even know—actually, you know what, don’t answer that.”

“Of course I never told Mycroft anything about my _sex fantasies,_ ” Sherlock snapped. “But he knew I wanted to be a pirate—“

“Well, yeah, he did tell me that bit,” John admitted.

Sherlock flung himself against the sofa back and scowled, arms crossed across his chest, the picture of affronted pride. “I knew it.”

John grinned at him, still feeling enormously pleased with himself. He crossed over and perched on the edge of the coffee table. “So let’s see if I can work this out. You get captured by the pirates…”

“Of course I don’t get captured. I stow away.”

“Right, of course. And then, what, they find you, and they take you on deck and pass you around with the bottle of rum?’

“Oh for God’s sake, _no._ You are once again jumping to the easiest and most pathetic cliché imaginable.” Sherlock threw himself back down onto the sofa again.

“You tell it then, you know I’m bollocks at the details,” John coaxed. Sherlock could never resist correcting John when he was wrong.

“Fine.” Sherlock sighed, endlessly put-upon, and John bit his lip to hide his smile. “The pirate ship pulls into the harbor at dusk, just a brief stop on her way to the West Indies. I slip away in the night and swim out—it’s a moonless night, so no one sees me—and climb up the side of the ship and stow away in the hold. I don’t come out until late the next afternoon when we’re well away. The crew spots me immediately and they try to catch me, but I’ve got my sea legs already and I get away…”

John, who knew perfectly well that Sherlock got seasick looking at boats on the Thames, nodded sympathetically. A fantasy wasn’t fun if you weren’t spectacular in it.

“…and I swarm up the rigging and leap from rope to rope until I’ve left them all behind. I swing down and snatch a sword from one of the officers and end by dueling with the first mate on the deck. Everyone is standing around in a circle gasping and cheering, until I disarm the first mate and press the point of my sword to his neck.” Sherlock shrugged. “Obviously this was an evolution of an earlier fantasy. I think I was learning fencing at the time, so sometimes I never got past that bit before I fell asleep. ‘Give me what I want and I’ll let you live,’ I say to the mate, who gasps out, “What do you want?’ And I say, “I want to join the crew.’”

“And the orgy is some kind of, what, initiation ritual?”

“Of course not. Don’t interrupt.” Sherlock scowled at John. “The first mate laughs. “Put that sword down, boy, if you want to join this ship. You can sail and you can fight, I grant you, but there’s more to being a pirate than that.’

“’Like what?’ I say, but I lower the sword.

“’Not all treasure is gold and jewels, you know.'” Sherlock’s voice had taken on a ludicrous pirate-y growl, and John hoped he wasn’t going to break out into an _Argh, me hearties_ anytime soon. “Your captives, boy! Any low brigand can rape and pillage. But a pirate—we’re artists, we are. When we take captives, they don’t want to leave us when we’re done with them. To join _this_ crew, you’ve got to prove you can wield your sword in the cabin as well as you can on the deck.’”

John was keeping a straight face only with great difficulty, so it was just as well that Sherlock was still gazing dreamily at the ceiling. Sex pirates indeed. “They tell me I need to go with one of the lady pirates—there were several, you know, Anne Bonny and Mary Read were exceptional pirates—and prove my skill. I refuse. They say I can go with one of the men of the crew instead, and I refuse again. “I’m not interested in such things. I only want to rule the seas,’ I say. The first mate shakes his head. “Live by the sword or die by the sword, boy—you’re one of us or you’re fair booty to be shared out. Lads, fetch the plank.’”

“The plank!” John was getting caught up in the story in spite of himself. “Are they going to make you walk it?”

“That’s what I think too, but no, they lash me to it.”

“What, face down?” _Ouch._

“Er…no.” Sherlock abruptly blushed. “On my back.” John stared at him blankly and Sherlock said defensively, “All right, I don’t know if I was _literally_ in primary school, but I was quite young. I didn’t even have a clear understanding of heterosexual intercourse, let alone—I assumed all you had to do was put it between their legs, as though everyone were doing intercrural.” John burst out laughing and Sherlock glared, flipped over in a fury, and sulked into the back of the sofa.

“No stop, stop, stop, I’m sorry,” John said, controlling his laughter with some difficulty. “I had crazy ideas too. I’d learnt girls had another hole down there but I knew what my cock looked like at full size and I thought the hole had to be that big—that they were all walking around with this great gaping cave between their legs—and I had no idea what I was looking at the first time, I couldn’t make out where it was! I was a bloody embarrassment.”

Sherlock rolled back over, looking mollified. “And you had a sister.”

“Well, it wasn’t like she showed me her fanny,” John pointed out. “All right, go on, I can’t wait to hear how this is going to go.”

“They lash me to the plank,” Sherlock resumed, “and at that moment the captain appears.”

John had forgotten the captain was not yet on the scene. “What does he say?”

Sherlock’s voice deepened, taking on an ominous authority. “’I saw this lad from the quarterdeck. He can outsail and outfight any one of you scrubs, and if he’s no interest in the gentler arts, it’s because he’s had no experience yet. Take him to my cabin, and I will be the one to show him.”

“Er.” John was not about to get involved in a situation of such dubious consent, even as make-believe. “Do I get to be the captain?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll be making a few changes then. Ahem.” John cleared his throat and sat up straight, assuming an air of command. “Boy, I’d hate to see your fine skills go to waste. If you’re bound and determined—“

“I’m definitely _bound,_ ” Sherlock interjected, and John giggled before he got himself back under control and said sternly, “Now who’s interrupting? Be quiet. If you’ve set your face against the arts of the, er, bunk—“

“Hammock.”

“Shut _up--_ I’ll give you a position as cabin boy, _or_ I’ll make you a wager.”

“What sort of wager?” Sherlock was suspicious.

“I’ll take you back to my cabin this very night and if by the time the cock crows—“

“We’re at sea, John.”

“—if by sunrise I haven’t brought you pleasure at least once, you may join the crew, and I’ll give you my second best sword as mark of respect at your strength of mind. And if I _have_ brought you pleasure--and I’ll lay any man here that I will, for I’m the captain of this ship for a reason—then you join my crew, and spend the next seven nights in my cabin.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock gazed at the ceiling as though considering, but John could see evidence of his burgeoning interest through the worn cotton of his pyjama bottoms. “Very well, I accept your wager. But the plank stays,” he added. “It’s integral to the fantasy.”

John shrugged. “As you like.” He looked down at the coffee table, which was far too short, and said, “We’d better move to the bedr—the cabin.”

 

John arranged Sherlock on his back in the centre of the bed. He tugged Sherlock’s arms out of his dressing gown sleeves and tied the sleeves over his chest, tucking the ends down at his sides, and then pulled Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms half way down his thighs and covered his lower legs with the duvet. Good enough, he decided: there would be no actual tying up on John’s ship, not without a great deal more discussion beforehand.  “There. You’re tied to the plank.”

Sherlock, for once, did not argue. He was wide-eyed with curiosity to see what John would do next. John was not really sure about that himself, especially since Sherlock was no longer dictating the action, but then the scenario did not exactly lend itself to much improvisation. He cleared his throat. “Shame about the plank,” he said, lifting his hand to gently push Sherlock’s hair off his forehead. “I’d rather we not have it, but you’re likely to try to run off and do yourself a mischief. Tomorrow I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“You’re very sure of yourself,” Sherlock said haughtily. “I’ve no intention of being back here tomorrow. I’ll be below, polishing up my new sword.”

“We’ll see about that,” John said, smiling. He swung his leg over Sherlock and straddled him, watching with satisfaction as Sherlock’s pupils expanded.  He took Sherlock’s penis—which was half-hard already and swelled further in his hand—and stroked his thumb gently over it. Sherlock sucked in an inadvertent breath and then tightened his jaw, the muscles of his thighs tensing as he clenched his legs together.

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” John said kindly. He took the head of Sherlock’s cock between his thumb and forefinger and gently massaged back the foreskin. “Can always use a good cabin boy. Especially such a pretty one.”

He’d expected Sherlock to scoff, but Sherlock’s lashes fluttered before he tipped his chin and said, “I’ve agreed to this wager and I won’t back dow— _unh.”_

“See, doesn’t that feel nice? I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to make you feel good, so good you’ll never want to stop…”

“You won’t.” Sherlock was determinedly clenching his legs again, arching his back and exposing his long luscious throat. “The rest of you may be no more than savages, mindlessly rutting like animals, but I’ll prove to you that I’m above such things.”

“Oh, but that would be such a waste. Such a beautiful boy.” John was watching for it his time and sure enough, Sherlock shivered all over with pleasure. You great narcissist, John thought fondly. “So lovely, such smooth skin, such a pretty cock. It’s a sin to hide it away. Maybe after I win I’ll have you stand your watch naked. Let all the other pirates see what a prize you are, let them see that beautiful arse as you climb the rigging—not touch it though, you’ll be all mine for seven days. I could bring you back here any time I like and fuck you. Fuck that pretty mouth. Fuck that gorgeous arse.”

John carried on teasing Sherlock with his hands and words, using the hand not rubbing his cock to massage over his taut abdomen and the thin skin of his pelvic bones, fondling between his legs. His left hand kept up an inexorable light stroking, until soon Sherlock was squirming and panting beneath him. John had been rubbing along Sherlock’s thigh, watching the flush mount in Sherlock’s pale cheeks, and now he was hard and wanting himself. He pushed up a bit and picked up the pace, tightening his grip in a purposeful rhythm, and at the same time reached to brush his fingers over Sherlock’s exposed throat. Sherlock made a tiny blissed-out whimper which he immediately cut off.

John grinned. He unfastened his own trousers and pulled himself out, working his way forward until he could clasp both their cocks together and thrust a little into his hand.  Sherlock sucked in air through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” John crooned, massaging Sherlock’s length against his. He tightened his knees around Sherlock’s hips and felt them jerk.

“Not at all,” Sherlock managed.

“You lie, sir,” John said sternly, wondering even as said it what the hell was going to come out of his mouth next. He sounded like Horatio Hornblower. Oh God, _Hornblower_! John bit his own cheek to keep from laughing.

“I do not lie,” Sherlock managed. John felt his hands clenching into fists under his makeshift bindings.  “I will prove it to you this very night.”

If Sherlock could still form sentences, Long John Watson needed to step up his game. Time for a little hornblowing. John slid back and leaned down, slipping Sherlock’s cock into his mouth and swirling his tongue as he slid down. Sherlock gave a sharp bitten-off groan, his entire body going rigid under John as he fought to keep from thrusting up.  John smiled around his mouthful, licking and sucking with all of his considerably-refined skill, until Sherlock was taut and quivering and making high-pitched desperate noises though his clenched teeth. John was enjoying himself immensely. Maybe there was something to this tying-to-the plank business, he thought: Sherlock could sometimes lose his head during oral sex, and while he wasn’t thick, he was _long._

When Sherlock’s hips began making uncontrolled little stutters, John pulled off and sat up. He knew Sherlock would be coming in a matter of seconds, but he wanted to see that blush again first. “Look at you, look how gorgeous you are,” he said, low and husky. “Such a shame the others can’t see you, how beautiful you look, gagging for it. Should I let them in tomorrow? Let them see my pretty boy? Maybe I’ll let them watch. Maybe even have a go, if they’ve been good.” Sherlock’s flush had deepened and he was writhing beneath John; if his hands had been free, John knew they would be tangled in his hair by now. “I can’t wait to see what you look like when you come.”

Sherlock, stubborn to the last, tossed his head and said, “You’ll never know,” and John chuckled and dropped his head again. He sucked Sherlock back into his mouth with maximum tongue and set to bobbing with a vengeance. It worked. John had only been slurping away for a moment before Sherlock stiffened and cried out, hips jerking, unable to keep from pushing into John’s mouth; John swallowed the first pulse and then pulled off and finished him with his hand, raising his head to watch Sherlock’s flushed and transfigured face as he whimpered through his orgasm. When he finally stilled John knelt up and pulled his hand away, wet and slick with semen and saliva, and pumped his own cock. Sherlock’s dressing gown swaddling had come untucked, but the sleeves were still tied across his chest, and the site of him—debauched, ostensibly bound, face open-mouthed and slack with pleasure—was working on John as effectively as his mouth had done on Sherlock. He was already close, and then Sherlock opened his darkened, half-dazed eyes and fixed them on John’s and John came shouting and spurting over his hand.

“I definitely didn’t have that bit in my fantasy,” Sherlock observed when John had finally collapsed onto the bed next to him.

John cracked a bleary eye to see Sherlock pulling off the now-besmirched T-shirt and dressing gown. “Well, what did you think the captain was going to do? Just get you off and open some rum?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Never thought about it.” He wadded the T-shirt and began wiping himself off.

John rolled off the bed and staggered to the loo, where he cleaned himself and refastened his trousers. When he came back, Sherlock was stretched out on the bed in only his pyjama bottoms, frowning at his watch.

“I forgot to check the time when I finished, but I must admit I didn’t last quite as long as I’d expected.”

“You were timing?’ John said, amused. He flopped back down on the bed next to Sherlock.

“Of course I was.” Sherlock’s eyes lit. “We should have a contest—see how long each of us can hold out against the other’s best efforts. Only you’re most aroused by intercourse, and in that situation you’re rather more directing the action, so it wouldn’t be fair as you could slow it down as much as you like…unless I ride you, but you get off fastest when you’re taking me from behind…this doesn’t interest you at all, does it.”

“Depends on what you’re willing to wager,” John said, who secretly quite liked his chances.

“Hmpf,” Sherlock said, dissatisfied. “I know what does interest you. You liked me under you, all marked up and messy and used. Didn’t you? You like to see me like that.”

“Er,” John said, taken aback. How did he _do_ that?

“That and passing me round the others, you mentioned that several times,” Sherlock added as an afterthought.

John realized that for once he had a card to play in this game himself. “I know what _you_ like. You liked when I called you pretty; you turned pink as a girl every time.”

John had expected Sherlock to roll his eyes but to his surprise Sherlock blushed again, turning his head away to hide his face.  John felt a wave of affection. He had a sudden urge to take Sherlock into his arms, to cuddle and stroke, to whisper “beautiful” into his scarlet ear. That wasn’t them; they didn’t do things like that. But almost of its own accord John’s hand rose tentatively, reaching in the direction of Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock abruptly flopped back over and John’s hand fell to the bed. “You did much better on that fantasy that I’d ever imagined. Of course you got all the details wrong but still, that was extraordinary for you. Now I’ve got to guess the one you don’t want to tell me.”

“Because there isn’t one,” John said with exaggerated patience.

Sherlock held his gaze, his pale eyes boring into John’s as John did his best to look blandly innocuous. He felt as though her were ten years old again and having a staring contest with the cat. Sherlock slitted his eyes at him in fierce concentration, and then he abruptly broke the stare and sat up. “I’ll work it out,” he said confidently and slid off the bed. “I’m going to make tea.”

John lay on his back, listening to the comforting sounds of Sherlock rattling around the kitchen. Initially he hadn’t wanted to tell Sherlock the fantasy because it had seemed both embarrassing and shameful: it was silly, and it showed a side of himself John did not like to acknowledge even in his own mind.  But Sherlock’s pirate fantasy had proven far sillier and he clearly had no issue with John’s darker impulses. No surprise there. No, John knew that withholding his adolescent fantasy had become a kind of superstition, an insurance policy against Sherlock’s inevitable boredom. He thought of the way Sherlock had peered at him, of his avid curiosity. What would happen once that curiosity was satisfied?

There was a sudden clatter from the lounge followed by a loud bellow. “ _John!”_

“Yeah?”

Sherlock came striding back in, bare-chested and with his hair standing up in a wild shagged-out nimbus, waving a newspaper in John’s face. “Look at this!”

“Oh yeah, Tafline Jones,” John said, recognizing the picture. “She did a runner whilst being transferred. Picked the guard’s pocket too, didn’t she? Told you you should have read past the first page.”

“Two guards,” Sherlock said with evident approval. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go!” He spun around, caught sight of himself in the mirror, and scowled. “I need a shower. Go get your shoes, you look fine.”

“You could just brush your hair,” John suggested, but Sherlock ignored him to whirl into the bathroom. “Pretty boy,” John called after him. Sherlock slammed the door with unnecessary force and John, laughing, got up to find his shoes.

**Author's Note:**

> "'You have heard me speak of Professor Moriarty?'  
> 'The famous scientific criminal, as famous among crooks as--'  
> 'My blushes, Watson!' Homes murmured in a deprecating voice."  
> \--Arthur Conan Doyle, "The Valley of Fear"  
>   
> Watson does mention Holmes blushing rather frequently, and I don't think I've seen anyone write a fic about it yet, so here it is! Also, I stole the opening lines of this fic verbatim from the opening of "The Valley of Fear" (aside from changing "I/Holmes" to "John/Sherlock" and so on). In the process I realized that ACD loved adverbs nearly as much as I do. What a relief! It's not lazy writing, it's DELIBERATE HOMAGE.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Booty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837466) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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